


Blood and Honey

by Claudia_flies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha!Bucky, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Memory Issues, Omega!Steve, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Underage Sex for chapter 4 only, Vague references to torture, Violence, but kind of fluffy too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A growl. It makes Steve’s knees turn into jelly and his body clench again. With dawning horror Steve realizes what is about to happen.</i> </p>
<p>Or: The fight on the bridge doesn’t go as Hydra planned. Gratuitous a/o/b fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses for this, it’s really just porn. I thought I’d jump on the Alpha!WS!Bucky and Omega!Steve bandwagon, and behold it was good. ;)
> 
> Dubcon warning for general A/O/B ness, heat and memory issues.
> 
> Hover over for Russian translations. For those on mobile devices translations in the bottom notes. ~~Apologies if they are not totally correct, google translate is a wily beast.~~
> 
> Thank you to the lovely [Safrane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Safrane/pseuds/Safrane) for correcting the Russian translations!
> 
> Absolutely [STUNNING art](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/post/166290632956/how-catws-should-have-ended-an-illustration-for) was created for this fic by the lovely and talented [Cobaltmoony](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/) commissioned by the ever wonderful [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely [Annie](http://definitelyannie.tumblr.com/) who helped with the Russian!

The mask clatters on the ground, and the Soldier turns on the balls of his feet, graceful and deadly.

The face is familiar, looking at him across the short distance and all the decades in between.

“Bucky?”

His nostrils flare, face pinched.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Horror and fear heavy in his belly, a weight he isn’t sure he can shift. Then the scent hits, familiar, forgotten, overwhelming and Steve’s body _clenches_. 

It happens in an instant the Winter Soldier, _Bucky_ , is on him. The heavy metal arm wrapping around the back of his neck, the grip strangely gentle and the cool metal soothing on his heated skin. He pulls Steve to him, nosing the hinge of his jaw.

“Mine.”

A growl. It makes Steve’s knees turn into jelly and his body clench again. With dawning horror, Steve realizes what is about to happen. 

He sees Natasha from the corner of his eye, weakened and leaning against one of the wrecked cars, but the rocket launcher is steady in her hands. Sam, his wings still open, gun pointing straight at them, too scared to take the shot with their bodies so close. Sirens in the air.

The cars surround them and the Strike team rush out, forming a perimeter. Rumlow swaggers out of the car, Rollins not far behind. The Alpha smell of them acrid and hostile. Steve can feel the Soldier tensing, the slight movement he makes to position himself in between Steve and the approaching men. His nostrils flare.

“Good work Asset.”

The Soldier shoots Rumlow in the face. Then Rollins, before anyone else can move. The rest of the strike team tries to engage, but Sam has already taken out two of them. The impact of the rocket launcher takes out the remaining, leaving them alone in the silence of the street, smoke and fire in the air. 

The soldier hauls him into one the Strike cars and Steve doesn’t really resist at first, too dazed. He opens the passenger side door, pushing Steve in, but he starts to fight against the pressure on his neck. The Soldier growls but surprisingly doesn’t push or tighten his hold.

“No. Not without Sam and Natasha.”

The Soldier looks at him eyes flat and hard, but Steve is not moving, nor getting into the car, his hands braced on the chassis. The Soldier huffs, clearly a sound of annoyance, but he nods and walks to collect the shield from the road and shoves it to the back seat at the same time as Sam and Natasha clamper in. 

The Soldier, _Bucky_ , drives aggressively, veering through traffic with the sirens and lights on. No one tries to stop them and they make it past all the police blockades easily.

Steve’s legs are shaking, the rush of adrenaline and hormones making him unsteady. He knows what is coming, has felt this before. After Azzano, a furtive mating in the freezing woods with Bucky’s hand over his mouth. 

He knows that he doesn’t have much time.

“Natasha.”

The Soldier growls at him, and Steve fights the urge to bare his throat. He wraps his hand around the door handle instead, pulling his body against the door, tight to the leather of the seat.

“Natasha, I’m going into heat.” 

“What the hell Steve.”

Her voice is slightly slurred and marred by pain. He leans back against the headrest, looking at her, pleading for her to understand. Sam is putting pressure on the wound on Natasha’s shoulder, but it’s not enough. Steve can smell the blood.

“Natasha. It’s Bucky.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, and Steve feels grateful that she is letting him see her surprise, letting him see her when he himself is so vulnerable. 

“He’s Bucky.”

The Soldier growls again and this time, Steve does bare his throat, grounding his ass against the seat of the car, not fighting the brutal wanting working its way through his body. He feels the touch of the Soldier’s flesh hand though the cotton his t-shirt, damp from sweat. He isn’t looking at Steve, his focus on the road, but his hand is gentle against Steve’s chest, grounding.

Steve whines deep from his belly, an instinctual Omega sound.

He can hear Natasha pull a breath through her teeth and the car swerves off the lane as the Soldier turns to bare his teeth at her.

“He’s going into a rut too, from what I can smell from here.”

There is a note of distaste in Sam’s voice, Betas preferring to avoid rutting Alphas where possible. Steve can understand how overpowering the smell must be to them in the close quarters of the car, no matter how much it smells like _Coney Island, and summer sand between his toes, security_ to him.

“It’s disgusting.”

Natasha is grimacing, Steve can hear it in her voice. The smell of another Alpha’s rut is antagonistic, a challenge, and Steve is grateful for the veneer of her professionalism. 

They change cars at a long term airport parking lot. The soldier easily breaks into and starts a large grey SUV with tinted windows. Pacing restlessly and growling as Sam helps Natasha into the back of the car again.

When they reach the interstate Steve starts to feel the slick. He grits his teeth, but he can’t help spreading his legs and grinding down against the seat.

“Fuck.”

The word is nearly a moan and he can see the Soldier tensing on the driver’s seat, his thighs tight and flexing within the confines of his combat trousers. Steve fights the urge to climb over him, slide Bucky’s cock and his fat knot out of his pants and slot it into his body, where it belongs.

His breathing is erratic, the a ghost of a long ago asthma in his chest. 

“Shit. I need to get to somewhere secure.”

“Солдат.”

There is a timber to Natasha’s voice that he hasn’t heard before. It’s not her Alpha voice but has a hint of military, something familiar. The Soldier stiffens.

“Я знаю безопасное место.”

The Soldier turns to look at Natasha again as she speaks, Steve can see the metal fingers indenting the steering wheel. His voice is gravelly and tense when he finally speaks.

“Мой.”

Natasha is leaning against Sam, her body purposefully open and non-threatening.

“Да”

The Soldier steers around another car at a speed which is breaking most of the traffic laws in the state. Steve breathes hard through his nose, eyes closed until the Soldier speaks again. An order. A plea.

“Пара.”

He looks straight at Steve, his pupils are blown and mouth a thin line. Steve knows the look, recognizes the emotion flickering across the Soldier’s face from that night after Azzano. Natasha speaks again but Steve barely hears her.

“Да”

Her voice is softer now, filled with gentle and terrible understanding.

“Он будет в безопасности.”

Natasha directs them to a derelict industrial estate. They hide the car inside a metal shipping container.

The door is hidden by rubble and a set of old corrugated iron sheets. The stairs lead down into a narrow hall with rooms spreading out like a maze. Natasha directs them into the third room on the left. The light of the fluorescent bulb overhead makes her look pale and worn. 

The room has a stainless steel table and a set of chairs. The walls lined with shelves and cupboards, filled with weapons, clothing, medical supplies.

Natasha chucks an injector-pen, still in its plastic wrapping, from the shelf to him and Steve catches it with shaking fingers. Emergency contraception. He rips the pack open and shoves the needle into his thigh through his trousers, grimaces as the drug is released. 

The Soldier is growling, a low hum that seems to echo inside Steve’s body. The slick is wet and hot between his legs.

“Steve, there is a room in the back. Take him there. Four doors down on the right.”

Steve isn’t sure which of them moves first in their haste to get out of the room and into the hallway.

The room Natasha sent them to is barren, but not filthy. The mattress in the corner looks clean enough, and a few pillows and blankets piled on top in an orderly tower. Two plastic wrapped cases of water rest in the corner.

Bucky paces, agitated in the small space, his nostrils flared and his breathing is uneven. And it is Bucky, the set of his shoulders and the way he presses his lips together is so achingly familiar. Steve can feel the heat coiling in him, Bucky’s scent setting his body off like a stream of firecrackers under his skin. 

Finally Bucky stills, looking at him, dark, bottomless eyes keeping Steve captive.

“Мой.”

It’s a release, a relief.

“Yes. Yours.”

And he tries not to cry. Instead, he captures Bucky’s hand and the metal plates whirr and click in the cloistered silence of the room. Steve guides it again to the back of his neck, the metal is cool and now familiar. He moves closer to Bucky, pushing his nose against the pulse point of his neck and offering his own.

He whines low and deep, like in the car, and then it all happens at once. He’s on his back on the mattress, legs pushed to his chest and Bucky’s nose pressing into the skin of his stomach where his t-shirt has ridden up. 

Their hands tangle on Steve’s belt and zipper. Bucky rips his trousers and underwear down his legs, throwing Steve’s shoes against the wall as he goes. They leave dark oil stains on the paintwork.

Then Bucky’s face is pressed against Steve’s spread out ass cheeks, tongue leaving over the trembling muscle of his asshole. Steve sighs in relief, his fingers pushing into Bucky’s matted hair. Bucky grunts and growls against Steve’s flesh, his mouth continues to slowly and surely work into Steve’s body, tongue pushing past the initial resistance of the muscles, lapping the slick that flows out of his body.

He’s still wearing his t-shirt and jacket and Bucky is still in his full combat gear, the buckles press into the back of his calves where they rest over Bucky’s shoulders. His left sock still clings on, and Steve would laugh if he wasn’t so busy moaning.

This is not what he had expected. The way Bucky had moved and behaved, Steve had been expecting fast and brutal. He had expected the Soldier. Instead, Bucky’s mouth works him open with patience and gentleness he had never possessed in the war or even back in Brooklyn.

Steve wraps his fingers around his straining cock. He needs to come, needs to take the edge off before Bucky knots him. Bucky’s dark eyes watch him over his stomach and chest, his tongue still inside Steve’s aching hole. He brings his human hand to join Steve’s, interlacing their fingers, working over the hardened flesh. 

Steve can feel his ass clenching around Bucky’s tongue, the slick pushing out as he comes. Bucky moves up and over him, rubbing his face and neck in Steve’s spunk, licking and grunting as he goes. Shoving Steve’s t-shirt to his armpits, leaving his tongue over Steve’s tender nipples, biting gently on the hardened flesh until Steve is crying, begging, his cock already hard and leaking again. 

He flips Steve onto his stomach with ease, the metal arm clicking as the plates move his weight. Steve breathes in the smell of the musty mattress and stale sheets, easing himself onto his knees, offering himself up.

He hears the pop of a button and the zipper of Bucky’s combat trousers, the rustle of heavy fabric. He whines at the feel of Bucky’s hot, fat cock sliding into the cleft of his ass, grazing over the tender edges of his hole.

“ _Alpha_.”

He is begging now, whining and curving his back, presenting. Bucky pushes into him with surprising control, filling him slowly. It’s terrible and wonderful and Steve gasps for breath against the mattress like he’s still a 90-pound asthmatic.

Bucky holds on to the back of his jacket as he fucks into him, Steve’s arms still trapped in the sleeves, forcing him down into the mattress, his sensitive nipples scraping into the sheets and springs below.

The knot pops past the rim, stretching him so sweetly and Steve screams. Bucky tightens his hold on the jacket, pulling up, forcing Steve’s back to curve as he pulls out, the knot popping back out. Steve sobs at the feeling of being stretched, of being claimed and taken. He’s so wet, dripping down his trembling thighs. 

“Please, Bucky.”

He must be wide open now, indecent and wanton for his Alpha’s cock. Bucky pushes in again, fucking the knot against the tender rim of his hole, growling low in his chest.

He comes, clenched tightly around Bucky’s knot. The feeling and memory of it wash through Steve’s body, leaving him boneless and cleansed. Bucky doesn’t pull out again, grinding himself against the sensitive flesh of Steve’s entrance as he comes, yelling something in a language Steve can’t understand.

He is grateful of Bucky’s metal arm around his middle as otherwise he would collapse. Bucky keeps him firmly ass against hips. Locked in together. 

Dreamily he listens to the click and flap of the straps and bindings of Bucky’s combat jacket and flak vest. Then his back is covered by a warm body, his own jacket and shirt pressed to his neck, as high as they will go. Bucky noses into his hairline, scenting the sweat gathered there and he licks the scent glands on Steve’s neck possessively. 

Steve’s not entirely sure how long they fuck. He thinks that Bucky knots him twice after the first time. Time feels hazy, like a dream. 

He remembers baring his neck, the white, almost washed out scar of the bond mark. Remembers Bucky biting and sucking on it until an angry bruise bloomed over it, marking him again.

Bucky has him pressed into the corner, all the blankets, and pillows wrapped around them like a tiny fort. Like a nest.

The door creaks and Bucky lets out a warning snarl. Natasha hovers on the doorway, not intimidated but not moving closer either. She holds her left arm close to her chest but otherwise she shows no sign of the injury. 

“Gentlemen, I hope that you are over the worst of it because we have the world to save.”

Bucky growls, trying to bundle Steve into the corner, more inside the blankets. Steve is still wearing his left sock. It has managed to cling to the ball of his foot throughout. It peeks out from under the blankets.

“Hill is here.”

Steve is looking at her owlishly as Bucky continues to glower. 

“So’s Fury.”

Steve sits up, shaking the blankets off his shoulders. The image of the Director getting shot plays over and over in his head.

“Fury?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at the numerous lovebites adoring Steve’s torso, but wisely remains silent on them.

“Yeah. He’s alive. Apparently.”

She turns on her heel, shouting over her shoulder before she slams the door:

“Please make use of the decontamination showers, you two smell like a sewer.”

The showers are a wide, white, tiled room. Bucky stands at the door, tense and unmoving, his eyes darting around the room. He seems to shake from the stupor when steam starts to pillow from the showers, filling the room.

He plasters himself to Steve’s naked back, easily pushing back into Steve’s body, his hole still slack and wet. The metal arm holds him in place against Bucky’s chest. Steve leans against the now warm tiles and lets Bucky fuck him into bliss again. 

Natasha is at the door again too soon, framed by the billowing steam.

“Jesus fucking christ, guys! World! Saving! Now!”

The helicarriers don’t even manage a take off from the bays. 

Bucky dispatches the Hydra flight crews with frightening precision, stopping at regular intervals to check where Steve is, and making sure that he is watching as Bucky takes down a number of enemies. He makes a special show of taking out some of the larger Alphas.

Afterwards they all go to Sam’s house. Fury had tried to take the Winter Soldier in for debriefing but had given up the notion as soon as Steve had pushed Bucky behind him, shield in hand, growling territorially. 

They lock themselves into the bathroom and fuck in Sam’s bathtub. Steve figures out several inventive ways of using the shower head. 

Sam orders a dozen large pizza’s, playing the Troubleman soundtrack at an unsociably high volume to cover the sounds.

At night Bucky raids Sam’s linen closet, piling every free duvet, blanket, throw pillow and sheet in the house on the guest bed. He pulls Steve into the nest and licks a proprietary stripe over the scent glands on his neck. 

Steve sleeps better than he has since Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Солдат.” Soldier  
> “Я знаю безопасное место.” I know a safe house  
> “Мой.” Mine.  
> “Да” Yes.  
> “Пара.” Mate / Lover  
> “Он будет в безопасности.” He will be safe


	2. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand. There is another chapter. This is really experimental and I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing…..

He doesn’t remember, but he knows. Knows that the scent belongs to him, it is his in a way that nothing has ever been. Calls to some part of him, deep inside, that he didn’t even know was there. He hadn’t understood, but his body had known the motions. Etched into his bones, deep into the nerve pathways of his body. Even the neural grafts of his left hand had known how to gentle his touch, his grip on the back of the Mission’s neck. How to hold him.

In the car, he had remembered the word. _Пара_. And in the bunker, he had remembered what it meant.

He remembers more now, which is still very little. He knows that Пара is _StevenGrantRogers_ (Target, Level 8). He wasn’t the soldier's mission on the bridge, but he is the Mission now.

The Asset piles the bed with blankets and duvets and pillows. The Mission Пара _StevenGrantRogers_ must be kept warm at all times. He breaks into the empty floors and apartments in the Tower to pilfer supplies. The building ( _JARVIS_ ) tells him that he does not have to steal, he can just ask, but the Asset knows that the building lies. The Asset must never ask for anything. No. Wrong. He can ask for a weapon. It will be given. But no one would give the Asset things to keep Пара warm. So he steals.

Пара kicks off all the duvets when he is sleeping and the Asset spends most of the night putting them back. The Asset does not mind. Taking care of the Mission Пара _StevenGrantRogers_ makes the Asset happy. He isn’t sure what _happy_ is exactly, but he has heard the word before and thinks that it is fitting.

He covers the left foot of _StevenGrantRogers_ with the duvet again. It’s poking out from under the covers and climbs back into the nest, worming his body into the middle of the cocoon he has built. Close, so close to Пара. So close that he can catch the scent, revel in it. He doesn’t have the right words ( _memories_ ) to describe it. It pulls on something in his brain, something distant that he feels should be there, something that was taken away.

The Mission Пара _StevenGrantRogers_ grumbles in his sleep. The Asset lets him settle against its body, nose to the hinge of its jaw. Пара snuffles against the Asset, contented and safe. The Asset feels proud. The rebellious left foot pokes out from under the duvet again. The Asset sighs and begins to wiggle back out, but Пара makes a distressed noise, clinging on and the Asset stills. He doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

Пара moves, hours later, the moonlight catching on the faint scar in the junction of his shoulder and neck. It’s pale and white, almost faded to nothingness. The Asset likes to put the mark in his mouth, fit his teeth over it, trying to force his brain to remember sinking teeth into flesh and claiming. But he never does. Instead, he sucks and bites on it until a bruise blooms over the faded scar. He likes watching the Mission Пара _StevenGrantRogers_ touching it reverently until it fades. It always fades too soon.

He runs his lips over it gently, not waking, breathing in the scent. A memory blooms, spreading like drops of blood in the water. A small runt of a boy, Omega with hair that catches the light like gold spun wheat. The boy is crying, arms around knees, hiding his face. Hiding eyes colored like springtime forget-me-nots.

The Asset whimpers at the memory, the distress that clamps on his stomach like a vice. Пара is awake, looking at him when he opens his eyes. Wide blue eyes in the darkness. They shine like forget-me-nots.

“Were you smaller?”

“Yeah, Buck. I was smaller.”

_Buck_. The Mission Пара _StevenGrantRogers_ calls the Asset _Bucky_. Secretly the Asset likes this. He likes having a name. It’s like having a secret, but a secret that is shared between two and so it is safe. Saved in two sets of memories rather than just one.

_StevenGrantRogers_ purrs low in his chest. It calms the Asset. Makes him want to curl into the nest, and he does. Пара licks the Asset’s neck, the touch makes him shiver, it’s supplicating and possessive in equal measure. It makes the Asset’s breathing slow, makes the ache in his chest ease, his body suddenly supple and relaxed.

The curtains are thick and long and block out the morning light. The Asset is not sure when he fell asleep. He does not sleep much, too vigilant, watching the sightlines, making sure that Пара is not cold, that he does not need for anything. He is still curled against the Asset, cock hard against the Asset’s thigh.

The Mission smells ripe. Like a fall crop of apples just picked. The Asset remembers biting into a small apple, tart and sharp and the way they would sweeten in the oven, wrapped in pastry.

He slides down the Mission’s chest, past pert, little nipples, already sensitive to the touch, he knows, and over his belly to the dip of his groin. The scent is stronger here and the Mission’s breath hitches like a sob.

The Asset slides his metal fingers over the slick and trembling hole, it contracts at the touch of cool metal and Пара does a full body shudder, legs falling open, inviting.

“Bucky. Please.”

He thinks that this has always been his purpose. To take care of his Mission, to make his Mission feel good.

He slides a single metal finger in, watches as the Mission’s body hungrily swallows a part of him. It must feel strange, cool and hard where a human finger would be warm and yielding. He adds another finger, pushing and stretching. Пара is crying out, purring in between breaths, deep in his chest. The Asset finds himself answering, a low rumbling growl, his lips open against the sensitive skin Mission’s thigh.

He crawls over the Mission’s body pushing his legs up and wide as he goes, sheathing his aching cock into his Mission’s body without warning. It’s hot and slick and tight, the kind of bliss he has not ever thought possible. The Mission mewls, his hungry body contracting around the Asset.

“Buck, come on, Bucky. Don’t tease.”

He doesn’t want to tease, so he rolls them over and the Mission sinks on his knot with a breathless yell.

He holds the Mission’s cock with his metal hand, sliding the edge of a cool thumb into the slit, precome making the metal glisten and shine.

The Mission rides him, knees wide and braced against the mattress. His tight hole pulling against the Asset’s swollen knot, never quite pulling it out.

The mission comes, white streaks of come painting the Asset’s chest. He rubs it into his skin, over his belly and chest, wanting to smell like his Mission, wanting everyone to know who he belongs to.

The Asset comes, too soon, but it locks Пара in place. Tight against him, held in place. Пара breathes into his mouth, sharing breath, sharing life. It feels like a gift, like a benediction. The Asset knows the word, but not its meaning. He only knows that it is not something that he deserves.

The arm starts to malfunction, the plates grinding as the Asset reaches for a can from the high shelf, the internal gears are stuck, and he is slowly loosing the range of motion. There was no maintenance after the bridge. He knows that in the before he should have told a Handler that the arm needed maintenance. ( _Pain. Pain. Bite plate._ ) The Mission has said that there are no more handlers. He says that the Asset is free.

The Asset understands this. He is free to build their bed-nest and keep Пара there as long as he wants to. He is free to stand in the hot shower as long as he wants, no choker or the cold hose. He is free to eat. Pancakes. Potatoes. Steak. Strawberries. He doesn’t like bananas. He is not quite sure why, but the Mission says that it’s natural for him to not like them as modern bananas are disgusting. The Asset had just shrugged and eaten something else instead.

Пара looks at the arm with pleading eyes, he’s noticed the grinding sound and the Asset doesn’t want to say no. He thinks that maybe he never did, that this is how their life was, him running after the runt of a boy, trying to keep him safe, but never denying him anything.

They go upstairs together. The lab is messy. It’s more of a workshop that a lab. This makes the Asset calmer.

“Rogers! Robo-Alpha! Welcome! Mi casa es Su casa.”

_Stark, Anthony Edward_. (Target, Level 8).

The man sweeps his arm around in a wide arc, encompassing the floor wide space. His scent is curious. Like the air before a lightning storm, electricity in the air, flickering. Overlaid by Alpha. He understands this now. Пара is an Omega, he is the Asset’s Omega and the Asset is an Alpha.

_Stark, Anthony Edward_ must also have an Alpha. The owner-scent lingers over him, it’s elegant, roses and clean linen, calm where Stark is electric.

The Asset sits on the bench by the worktop.

“Alright Buckaroo, let’s turn off the neural connections on this bad boy and get to work.”

Пара hovers by him, chest craning forward, wanting to touch but not wanting to disturb. The Asset pulls him to his side, tight into the crook of his arm. The Mission makes a quiet, happy noise.

“We can take a break anytime you need to, okay.”

He hears the plates flicking open under Starks nimble fingers and sharp tools. A strange shiver down his shoulder and suddenly it’s like the arm isn’t there anymore. It is there, he can see it, hanging on his side, limp and useless. Powered down. Five plates on the bicep folded open.

“I don’t feel anything.”

The Mission’s eyes are wide and luminous. Hopeful.

“That’s good right?”

“I felt before. I had a bite plate.”

Пара looks sad at the admission. He pushes closer to the Asset, seeking comfort. Or maybe he is trying to comfort the Asset. The Asset doesn’t say that he is not deserving of comfort. That he is built to endure the hurt. He lets Пара press against his side, lips and nose grazing where he now knows his scent glands are. It feels good.

“Whoa, whoa, guys. Tone it down. Jesus. It’s gonna start smelling like a crap factory in here.”

Пара purrs unhappily and the Asset bares his teeth at Stark.

“Okay, okay! Just a request here. From me. The genius who is fixing your freaky communist arm. Brilliant tech by the way. Brilliant but cruel. So go on ahead, stink away!”

Stark whirls a long thin screwdriver between his fingers and dives back into the wires, grumbling “freaking honeymooners” under his breath, face again buried in the pulled out circuitry of the Assets arm.

Пара nuzzles his ear, gentle kisses over his cheek and jawline, distracting and welcome. The Asset feels suddenly shy, acutely feeling the presence of another Omega on his other side. For some reason, he doesn’t want the other to see what he and Пара do. He wants to scurry Пара away into their bednest again and stand guard so no one can see or watch.

But he can’t. Because he made a promise to let Stark fix his arm, so instead he leans over, lips grazing the shell of an ear.

“We go nest after.”

Пара blushes but nods. Stark makes a disgusted sound.

There is pulling and then a sudden, sharp plop, like something unnatural being wrenched free from whatever organic material is left inside the socket of his shoulder.

Stark is very good. Afterward, the arm feels different, feels better, the low ache that he hadn’t even realized what there seems to be missing. He feels lighter somehow.

Three days later the fix on the arm becomes useful.

He is standing in the belly of the quinjet with his Mission, the red Alpha and her Omega. The man with the wings is also there, further back. He smells strange, neutral. _Wilson, Samuel Thomas_.

The red Alpha _Romanova, Natalia Alianovna_ (Target, Level 6) still looks at him with guarded suspicion, always standing in between the Asset and _Baton, Clint_ (Target, Level 4). His scent is like freshly leavened bread and something strong the Asset does not have a word for.

He thinks that he remembers now. Maybe from Hydra, or maybe from before. Bonded fighting pairs are more effective in the field than regular fighting units. They will protect each other until death, they will move in sync, will know where the other is by instinct. Useful to close quarters combat.

He thinks that he remembers dark alleyways, a tiny boy with a big mouth. Scraped knees and knuckles. Blood on the street. The Mission starts the fight. The Asset finishes the fight. This is how it should be.

He growls as he fights, an instinctual sound he does not realize he is making until _Romanova, Natalia Alianovna_ hisses:

“For fucks sake Barnes, keep it down. We all know he belongs to you. Jesus.”

Her voice is aggravated, challenged and the Asset snorts through his nose, annoyed and pleased. But then the Mission throws the shield and the Asset returns to the fray.

He enjoys the feel of battle, of killing. He is very good at it. The best. It’s different this time. The heat in his belly and chest as he takes down the enemies, protects his Пара, is new. He looks back to see that Пара is watching, is seeing him, that his protection is not going unnoticed. Пара is flushed, his eyes gleaming in the dark of the hallway as they make their way to the center of the compound.

The Red Alpha breaks into the computer systems with ease, bodies strewn on the floor, blood squeaking under the boots. The Asset grabs the Hydra scientist by the throat when he tries to speak. The choked “Sput...” wilting away as the Asset crushes his trachea. Then he shoots the man in the head. Just to be sure.

On the way home he pulls Пара to his lap, pulling the collar of his uniform aside mouthing and licking the scent glands on his neck, making Пара shiver and whimper against the Assets neck, nosing the Asset’s glands in return, scenting, belonging. 

The Red Alpha had given him a venomous stare, which the Asset had gleefully ignored, and locked herself and her Omega in the cockpit for the duration of the flight. _Wilson, Samuel Thomas_ is asleep among the parachute packs.

Sometimes in the Tower, the Asset catches _StevenGrantRogers_ looking at him. Furtive glances, with a book on his lap. He is drawing, the near quiet scratch of a 2B pencil against the heavy paper of the pad.

There is a memory again. Long elegant fingers, hands too big for his body, covered in charcoal dust. It gets everywhere. Cuffs of white shirts ruined forever. A smear of fingertips on the collar of his Sunday best. He never minds.

He finds the book in the middle of the night. _StevenGrantRogers_ hides it under the books and magazines on the coffee table. The Asset scoffs at the poor concealment tactics. He should let the Mission know that he needs extra training in camouflage.

It takes him a long time to start seeing himself in the pictures. The soft curve of a jaw. A tuft of hair gathered in the back of a graceful, sloping neck. The exaggerated Cupid’s bow. But he recognizes the last one from today. Of him sitting in the corner of the sofa, face lit up by the StarkPad. He had been reading Wikipedia.

He goes back to bed and holds _StevenGrantRogers_ for a long time. The nest is warm around them.

The memories come in bits and pieces.

Stevie’s torn up knuckles and the way he hissed when they were cleaned. The dirty, bloody water in the basin.

The glint of a shell casing in Dallas. The shattering of a human skull.

The bone saw cutting into the flesh of his arm. Screams in his throat.

Captain America. Red, white and blue glinting across the smoked out battlefield. A salute through the scope of his M1941 Johnson.

Steve’s muffled cries in a burned out farmhouse near Toulouse when Bucky knotted him.

Sweet, honey blood in his mouth.

Steve.

Stevie.

_Mate_.

Eventually, he is Bucky Barnes, at least for the most parts. Not everything is left. He thinks that the easy charm and fast smiles are long gone, burned out by decades torture and murder. And the Soldier is still there, just under the skin, skills still in check.

He cries for a long time, apologizes for what happened after the bridge. In the bunker. But Steve smiles against his skin, breathes in at the joint of his shoulder and neck.

“Buck. I wanted it. Wanted you.”

It’s a whispered confession against his clavicle, against the metal plates embedded in his bones, deep inside skin and flesh.

“I thought I would never see you again. Thought that a part of me had died and this was only a half-life, a purgatory I was forced to endure.”

Bucky holds him, as he has always done. Small and skinny or big and hulking and so unlike the Omega he should have been. But Steve’s voice has always been the same, deep and familiar, blue eyes looking at him with emotions Bucky has no words for, looking at him across the short distance and all the decades in between. 

“To have you back…”

Steve shakes his head, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, angry at himself. Bucky remembers the scent now, the memories of apples and fireworks seen from a hot rooftop, sweet, sugary spun cotton candy at Coney Island. 

Their kisses are hot and sweet, tongues in each other’s mouths, reminding and remembering. Hands moving over scars and unmarked skin, Bucky’s mouth on the stretched bondmark, and he remembers giving it now, remembers Steve asking.

Steve’s hand over his back counting the knobs of his spine in a silent whisper against Bucky’s neck. A finger sliding into the valley of his ass, rubbing over his tight hole. They used to do this, he remembers, in Brooklyn. The unspoken deviancy which they both wanted. An Omega mounting an Alpha.

Steve finds a tub of lube, warming it between his fingers. He mouths over the tip of Bucky’s cock as he works the first, slick finger over the rim, probing the tight bud of his entrance.

He is so hard, knot already swelling and Steve squeezes it in his palm, humming around the leaking head of Bucky’s thick cock. Bucky moans at the sensation, breath coming in uneven gasps as Steve pushes in, his finger stretching Bucky open for the first time in seventy years.

It catches in his throat, the memory and the feeling of now, that he can have this, has gotten this back. 

That he is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Пара = mate
> 
> There will be two more chapters after this. Because when you ask for another Bucky POV chapter, I go and plan full three extra chapters following these stupid idiots from Brooklyn to the war.
> 
> Please come and say "hi!" on my [Tumblr](http://claudia-flies.tumblr.com/).


	3. Azzano

They make it out of the burning gates, the last ones out as the base explodes. The men stand among the trees, illuminated by the flames, covering their mouths and noses from the thick smoke and the ash raining down, but no one is moving or running. They all watch it burn.

The flames light up the cuts on Bucky’s face in crimson and black. He looks hollowed out and empty and Steve is not sure how he can fix this. If he is even ever truly able to understand what happened. The brief glimpse of the suffering endured on that table, the months that he has missed. 

It reflects also in the eyes of the men, the flames lighting up the hunger and hate in their faces that Steve still can’t fully comprehend, but Bucky is safe. He is _here_. Leaning on Steve. The smell of him is intoxicating. It wraps itself around Steve like a blanket, a distant memory of home. The long separation suddenly seems like nothing at all.

He leans in, nose gently sliding over the sweaty and dirty skin of Bucky’s neck, searching for the glands there, the familiar scent of his mate. Bucky shudders, his whole body shaking against Steve’s side, but he doesn’t stop, only angles his head, giving Steve more room.

It creeps down his spine, slow and then suddenly all at once. Steve feels the pressure in his hips, around the base of his cock and behind his balls. He whines, deep in his belly, instinctive and unbidden. Bucky turns to look, his eyes are wide, black and unreadable. But so do the others. The huge man in the bowler hat swears.

“Fuck. You said a tiny Omega, Sarge?”

Steve doesn’t know the men, he recognizes the Bowler Hat from the cells, but they seem to know Bucky. They shift, moving as a unit, forming a loose perimeter, wide backs and angled arms forming a barrier between Steve, Bucky and the crowd of released prisoners. 

Bucky seems to jolt out of his reverie, looking at the men with narrowed eyes, his hands pushing Steve behind him. It doesn’t do much now, with Steve’s bulk much bigger than his but Steve moves to stand behind his body anyway.

“You need to get him out of here. And fast.”

The soldier is British, clipped accent like Peggy’s. The Bowler Hat nods, looking around, his eyes narrow and looking at Steve pointedly. 

The feeling curls in his belly, strange and new. He leans into Bucky, trying to catch his scent again, needy and selfish.

“The smoke’s gonna cover you, but you gotta move now.”

Bucky is nodding, mechanically, still dazed. His hand curls around Steve’s hip, fingers digging into the skin and Steve whines. It makes the Bowler Hat wince and look away.

“Just head at two clicks west. We’ll camp here overnight. Meet you back here in the morning.”

The Bowler Hat shoves a few rough blankets into Bucky’s hands. Steve is not entirely sure where he managed to procure them and Bucky looks at them stupidly, then back at Steve, his nostrils flaring. His hand is no longer on Steve and he misses it, wants it back with a fierceness he’s never felt.

They make it maybe 300 yards into the woods when Bucky shoves him against an aspen, nose deep against his neck. His exhales are harsh pants against Steve’s heated skin, a low growl in his belly and Steve wants nothing more than to drop to the ground and _present_.

“Not here.”

Bucky’s voice is gravelly in a way Steve has never heard before. An order that makes Steve’s inside turn into jelly, makes him want to obey in a way that he has avoided for his entire life. It hits him then, the back of his head scraping rough against the bark of the aspen. He is going into heat. 

They move through the woods, unfocused and stopping to lick and nose each other’s glands. Bucky’s hands are rough on his sides and Steve feels them even through the leather and fabric. Slick is running down the backs of his thighs, sticking the leggings of the Captain America suit to his skin. He is grateful now for the extra layers.

He has never had a proper heat, his slick and scent glands atrophied and underdeveloped. No Alpha had ever wanted him, but Bucky hadn’t cared, they had made it work. Had been happy no matter what others had said, not matter how many times Steve had heard the gossip, the nasty sentiments around their neighbourhood.

_“Oh, it’s such a shame.”_

_“A virile Alpha picking a defective Omega like that.”_

_“He could have done so much better.”_

The worst thing was that he couldn’t even disagree with any of them. They were all true. He would sometimes, angry and scared, say so to Bucky. As if daring him to leave, to prove the wagging tongues right. Bucky would just get very quiet for a long time, and he would hold Steve even closer on those nights, nose wedged into the back of his neck, steady breath lulling Steve into sleep.

The find cops of fir trees nestled together. Their low hanging branches providing some protection from the elements. Bucky spreads the blankets down on the ground, and Steve can see his hands shaking as he smooths the rough fabric. The way he holds his body, still and silent. 

Steve crawls to him, seeking out the heady scent again. He knows the smell of Bucky’s rut, the musk and the hot edge his usually jovial scent gets. Knows the possessive, grabby hands that even then, never bruised or hurt him, even if Steve would have sometimes wanted him to.

He has always loved the way Bucky smelled, even when he was younger and it hadn’t really settled yet. The way his sheets would smell after he stayed over, no matter how disapproving Steve’s ma had looked at them. She had never refused, just shook her head, worried. Wanting the best for him, but knowing that she could never change the world.

Bucky’s hands are on him now, rougher than he expects, a secret thrill deep in his belly. He pushes Steve down onto the blankets, settling between his open thighs, working on his belt and the zipper of his pants with unsteady hands. Steve shrugs the leather jacket off his shoulders, shoving it to the edge of the blankets. His boots still on his feet, rucking up the blankets and the dirt gathered at the base of the trees. 

Bucky won’t look him in the face, just shoves and rips his foot out from his left pant leg, leaving the combat trousers pooled around his right calf. He snorts, horrified, at the tight Captain America shorts and leggings. Runs his hands over the material, up Steve’s legs and over the prominent bulge at his crotch, around the wet stain between his legs. Bucky’s breath is hot over Steve’s ear when he leans over.

“You need it bad, huh, Sweetheart?”

Steve shudders at the tone. Bucky finally sounding like his old self, the cocky Brooklyn boy with an easy smile and charm to spare. Steve whines as his whole body clenches, releasing another wave of slick, pooling hot between his arse cheeks and thighs. Bucky curls his fingers into the shorts and Steve can feel and hear the ripping fabric, the cold air rushing against his exposed skin.

The feeling isn’t new, wanting submission, wanting to be taken, but this time Steve can feel his body responding to it. The shiver down the curve of his spine, the unfamiliar and startling clenching of his arsehole, waiting to be filled. Bucky’s eyes are dark, irises swallowed by the black of his pupils. He slides his hands down the backs of Steve’s thighs, palms cupping his arse cheeks, thumbs coming to rest on the trembling furl of muscle.

Bucky’s never knotted him. They’d been too afraid. Scared that it would have damaged him. Steve had asked, had begged, but Bucky had always refused, keeping the knot outside Steve’s body, squeezing and pressing it with his hands instead. 

If Steve is honest with himself it had been hard enough with Bucky just fucking him, the amount of time and KY it took to get him loose enough without hurting. Sometimes he would just let it hurt, would lie, but Bucky seemed to always be able to tell. 

He’s bigger now than Bucky is, and for a moment, he feels chilled. What if Bucky no longer wants him. His new body is not the body of an Omega.

_I thought you were smaller._

Bucky had always held him, nuzzled against the unnatural curve of his spine, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the thin, nearly translucent skin over his ribs, and whispered “beautiful” in such reverent tones that Steve had forgotten all the horrible things people said about him.

_Is it permanent._

He still wants that, wants to be small and tender, with Bucky curled around him against the cold, but part of Steve fears that it is something that will be lost to them forever now. Bucky’s thumbs press into his body, spreading him open and Steve keens at the intrusion. He’s slick and wet and so, so sensitive. He wants to close his legs, he wants to open them wider, writhing on the blankets. Bucky growls:

“Stay still.”

And Steve does, his breath coming out in harsh pants though his nose as Bucky works his fingers in and out, fucking him. He can feel it coilin in him, his balls drawing in, the pressure and fire in his belly.

“Buck. Bucky, please.”

Bucky just pushes deeper, digging into that spot inside and Steve comes with his lip between his teeth, tasting blood and ash. 

His come soaks the red, white and blue stripes of the Captain America shirt, sticky and hot against his fevered skin. Bucky’s hands push the fabric, fingers pulling on the collar, ripping the seams over his shoulder. His shirt pushed up to his armpits, his nipples hardening in the cold air. Steve has always liked Bucky playing with them, lips and gentle fingers. 

After the serum he had sometimes just lied in his bunk on the USO tour, two fingers in his ass and a nipple caught between his thumb and forefinger, coming over and over. Spunk running over the smooth planes of his stomach.

Suddenly Bucky stills. Steve feels his fingers over the scar, still and unmoving. It still tingles, but the skin is stretched and faded now, barely visible anymore. 

“Did you let them take it away?”

Bucky’s voice is cold and hollow. Steve whines, panicked, exposing his neck more. He wants to cry.

“No, no, no.”

He had looked at it in the mirror after everything, felt the loss more keenly than anything in his life. The raised mark that had been his companion, his comfort for years was now faded, sunken into the skin, barely there. He wants Bucky to re-do it, try again, but he knows that you only get the one time, the one try to get it right. And he has ruined it. He whines supplicating and begging. 

Bucky catches the peaked flesh of a nipple between his teeth, almost painfully.

“You. Are. Mine.”

Each word is punctuated by a bite. Bucky is not holding back, his teeth sinking into skin, bruising and sharp. 

“Mine.”

“Yes. Yours.”

Steve sobs in relief, spreading his legs, offering his aching hole. 

Bucky fumbles with his belt and fly, his teeth still sunk into the tender flesh of Steve’s chest. His cock is huge, red and leaking when Steve finally catches a sight of it in the low light of the forest. 

Bucky doesn’t prep him, just pushes in, rough and hard against the hypersensitive rim of his hole. Slick runs down Steve’s arse cheeks as Bucky fucks into him. Steve breathes in to scream, but Bucky clamps his hand over Steve's mouth, silencing him.

He is not being gentle and Steve doesn’t want him to. His palm is salty and hot over Steve’s mouth, he runs his tongue over the skin and is rewarded with a hiss and snapping of Bucky’s hips against his. The knot pops past the tight ring of his ass and Steve howls muffled only somewhat by Bucky’s hand over his mouth. 

He feels full, overwhelmed, perfect. His hole, his insides stretching to accommodate his mate for the first time. And then Bucky pulls back, the knot sliding out of his body with a sharp tug and Steve feels empty.

_“Alpha.”_

Bucky growls, his other hand punishing on the back of Steve’s thigh, shoving him open wider as he pushes back in, relentless and rough. Steve yowls against his palm. He is trying to relax, trying to be open but his hole tenses and smarts at the intrusion.

Bucky fucks into him again, once, twice. Steve feels his whole body clamping down, the sweet relief of his orgasm holding the knot, claiming it into his body. Bucky moans, high pitched and pained and Steve feels the knot swelling even further, stopping Bucky from pulling out. But he isn’t coming, face twisted in agony. 

Bucky rubs his face in Steve’s come, on his belly and chest, his back curved like a bow. Steve takes his shaking hands to the back of Bucky’s head, gentling the short hairs there, the tender, unguarded skin. 

“Bucky.”

His name, like a prayer, is nothing more than a whisper against the skin of Bucky’s palm that still rests over his mouth.

“I can’t.”

It’s a sob against Steve’s skin, feral and afraid.

Steve slides his hands down his back and under the manky sweater Bucky still wears, feeling the skin. Feeling the puckered scars and hard scabs while Bucky shakes. Steve's fingers over the pool of sweat gathered at his lower back.

Bucky’s hips are still moving, working his knot inside Steve’s hole, making his whole body sing in pleasure. He tries to stop but he can’t, coming again with a pained moan painting his belly again in long white stripes. Steve isn’t sure if it’s the heat or the serum, the constant thrum of arousal under his skin. But he is grateful for it, clamping down on Bucky’s knot, not letting him escape.

Steve runs his fingers over the mess, gathering his own come on his fingers, rubbing them over Bucky’s exposed neck. Scent marking. Bucky arches, exposing the column of his throat, vulnerable, tears running down his cheeks. He cries. Great, big heaving sobs against Steve’s chest. Steve wants to ask, wants to comfort but knows that there are no words in the world for this. 

It’s new for both of them, this closeness. This terrible intimacy of being tied together or not being able to move or hide from each other, bodies so close that each tremor, each shake, and clench is exposed. Feelings so close to the surface, no hiding places left.

Steve takes his fingers to his mouth, slick with saliva, and slides them down into the back of Bucky’s trousers. Down the valley of his arse, circling that tight pucker the way he knows Bucky likes. Steve can feel the incremental way that Bucky spreads his legs, still caught in his trousers, the way his knot swells, impossibly more. 

“I’ve got you, Buck.”

It’s just a tip of his finger, pulling up against the tight rim, opening him. Steve can feel Bucky bearing down and can feel when he finally starts to come, watching the relieved slack of his mouth. 

After, Bucky lies over him, blanketing his body, his face buried in Steve’s chest, his arms around the meat of Steve’s thighs, keeping his spread open. 

They don’t say it out loud.

_I missed you._

_I love you._

_I thought I’d lost you forever._

But they both hear it in the silence of the woods. In the cadence of one another’s breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, big Thank You! to everyone who has left kudos and comments. :) Come and say “hi” on my [Tumblr](http://claudia-flies.tumblr.com/).
> 
> One more to go… I’m not sure if I can get this done before CA:CW which I’m going to go see next Friday, but I will do my best!


	4. Brooklyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage sex for this chapter. Bucky is sixteen, Steve is fifteen.

He’s fifteen when they know for sure. His ma is so happy that her eyes tear up, crinkling on the edges with the force of her smile. Alpha in the family means a steady job and a decent pay cheque even in their part of Brooklyn. 

Becca who is twelve wrinkles her nose and says “gross!”, which earns her a whack from their mother’s wooden spoon.

His littler sisters don’t really understand yet, but they enjoy the lemon cake his ma makes to celebrate none the less.

Steve is fourteen, and Bucky gives him a slice of the celebratory lemon cake, wrapped in a hanky. They don’t know about him for sure yet, but Bucky hopes. A giddy edge to his thoughts around Steve. 

His ma starts to give Steve these looks when he comes around. Long and considering, a bit less friendly. Invitations to stay for dinner don’t come so readily anymore. 

She introduces Bucky to nice girls from Church, pretty Omega’s with bouncing curls and gentle slopes to their waists, but all Bucky can think about is the hard line of Steve’s knuckles, scarred and discoloured from so many fights. 

They still run around the neighbourhood, keep a look out for the 3rd street gang, but there is an edge to the fights now, a tight ball of fury in Bucky’s stomach whenever Steve gets hit. He punches harder now, wanting to draw blood, wanting to be on top rather than just buying time to drag Seve out and run away. 

They sit on the hot roof on the fourth of July, fireworks exploding over their heads. Steve’s eyes wide and amazed, the same every year. His gaze following the patterns of colours and light.

Bucky can’t take his eyes away from him, from his crooked nose and blue eyes like forget-me-nots, reflecting the bright colors. Bucky leans in, stealthy and covered by a bang of an exploding rocket, his nose so close, nearly touching the wispy hairs at the base of Steve’s neck. Smelling the gentle apple scent of his friend. 

The summer passes, hot and humid air hanging over Brooklyn like a blanket. Bucky grows another two inches. Steve is now fifteen and they still don’t know for sure and Steve’s ma’s eyes are pinched with worry. 

He doesn’t see Steve for three days. His ma tries to keep him at home on the fourth day but Bucky sneaks out. It’s hot out, stifling August heat and Steve is sitting on his fire escape when Bucky climbs up. Battered sketchbook on his lap.

He slams it shut when Bucky’s head pops past the parapet. 

“Heya Stevie. Where you been?”

“Heya Buck.”

His words are halting. He’s been crying, and Steve never cries, not even when Tommy O’Halloran kicked him in the balls. 

“Ma took me to the hospital and they did a test.”

“What kind of test?”

He fidgets, doesn’t look at Bucky, fingers playing with the paper edges of the sketchbook. 

“I’m an Omega.”

Bucky feels giddy, floating, happy. Him and Steve. Forever is possible. But Steve doesn’t look happy, his face is twisted, closed off and angry. He looks at the brickwork of the building next door when he speaks again. 

“But I’m wrong somehow. Defective. They think that I’ll never have a heat or anything.”

Knuckles white, fingers pressed into the cheap cover of the sketchbook.

“They said that I can pass as a Beta.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. All those uncomfortable feelings he has started to have around Steve. All the silly thoughts on how Steve was made for him. He wants to voice them all, but instead what comes out is:

“Is that what you want? To be a Beta?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes are red but determined, and Bucky feels his young, inexperienced heart break into two. Steve wants to be a Beta, no an Omega, and definitely not Bucky’s Omega.

He forces a smile because Steve is his friend. Will always be his friend, will always be the most important person in Bucky’s life.

“That’s cool, Stevie. You wanna go get ice cream?”

Steve does. He lays the sketchbook carefully inside the window and follows Bucky down the fire escape. 

The ice creams are cold and sweet, dripping in the summer heat, but Bucky doesn’t notice any of it. The giddy feeling replaced by rejection. He looks at Steve and tries to think of a Beta, tries to ignore the scent of apples in his nose.

Fall comes, wet and cold, and Steve does pass with ease. Bucky’s ma starts inviting him to dinner again with a smile. 

He still stays over at the Rogers’ sometimes. Mrs. Rogers never says anything, just looks at Bucky with a tight, hostile expression. Bucky wonders if she knows what he wants. He doesn’t know how to tell her that Steve doesn’t want him and that he would rather die than hurt Steve. That it’s his job to protect Steve.

He lies on the couch cushions on the floor of Steve’s room until the lights go out in the living room and Steve scoots back on the bed, throwing the blanket aside as an invitation. He breathes Steve in, cloistered in the dark. The elegant slope of his neck and the little nodule of his spine against the cold tip of Bucky’s nose. He is sure that Steve can feel it, but he never says anything. 

Bucky is sixteen when he goes into a rut the first time. He’s grumpy and anxious, growling at his ma and sisters and slamming the doors until the panes rattle and his ma threatens him with a hiding. 

He’s curled on his bed, a pulp novel in hand, trying to ignore the ache in his belly. Steve shimmies through the narrow gap between the two window panes from the fire escape.

“Steve. Jesus! Steve, you can’t be here!”

Panic and lust grip his insides. The new, alien and frightening part of him wants to grab Steve and just _take_. Steve sees none of it, or maybe he just doesn’t care, the crazy bastard.

“Don’t be stupid, of course I can.”

Familiar stubborn set of his jaw, chin jutted forward, looking for a fight. 

“Don’t smell like an Omega, so it’ll be fine.”

He just shrugs like it’s nothing, and Bucky doesn’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t have to smell like an Omega because he already smells like _Steve_. Like every good thing Bucky has ever known. 

He doesn’t know how to tell Steve that the scent makes Bucky want to climb inside him and never leave. To do things to him that Bucky doesn’t have words for, and only a very rudimentary knowledge of the mechanics. 

Instead he shrugs helplessly, gesturing around his small, stuffy room.

“Just don’t let my ma catch you.”

Steve smiles wide and unguarded, grabbing a new comic from the dresser and curling on his usual place on the window sill. His hair flops over his eyes as he bends down to look at the drawings more closely.

Bucky reads the page on his book over and over again, not taking anything in. Not even the description of the slime monster. Steve’s scent fills the room. He knows that everyone says that Steve doesn’t smell like anything, but Bucky is sure that they are all lying.

He’s hard. Aching. Nearing painful, his balls pulled taunt. He pushes the heel of his palm against his hardness, eye falling shut at the feeling.

“Stevie. You gotta go. I have to...”

“That’s ok Buck. I don’t mind.”

His voice is solemn, face sincere with only the faint dusting of a blush high on his cheekbones. 

Bucky closes his eyes, lying back on his bed, trying to remove Steve from his eye line. Fumbles his belt off and fly open, pulling out his aching cock, the knot already popped out at the base, swollen and angry. He fists himself a few times, tight grip, breathing out in relief. Running his thumb over the leaking slit.

He doesn’t want to think about Steve. He should be horribly embarrassed knowing Steve is close by, _might be watching_ , instead, it makes his cock jerk to attention. He opens his eyes to find Steve sitting next to him on the bed, knees to chest, looking at him intently, looking at Bucky’s leaking cock, the fingers wrapped around the purpling head.

Bucky tries to jerk back but Steve makes a noise, a mix between a whine and deliberate hum and Bucky freezes. Steve reaches out, slow and deliberate, his big fingers wrap around the aching knot. Too gentle even with his dinner plate hands that don’t fit his body.

Bucky’s breath is caught in his lungs. Steve touch burns on his skin. His knot throbs with want.

“You can squeeze harder.”

He does and Bucky grunts, precome dribbling down to his belly. 

“Fuck. Steve.”

Steve looks at him the way he looks at everything else. With intense, artist’s focus, like he is saving the image in his head to draw later. The thought makes Bucky’s cock jump and drool even more. The idea of this gracing the pages of Steve’s sketchbook, the secret one that he keeps in between the wall and the mattress. Bucky has seen it but never looked inside. 

Steve runs his finger over the leaking head, dipping into the slit and Bucky bites his fist to stop the noises threatening to escape him.

“Stevie, you gotta stop.”

“It’s okay.”

“Steve. Stevie, you don’t know. You don’t know what I want.”

“It’s okay Bucky.”

He leans down and sucks the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth. Hot and wet and tight, dangerous with a hint of teeth. His palm still firm around the knot.

Bucky comes almost instantly, his back arching off the bed, legs spread and spunk dripping down Steve’s chin onto his wool pants. He wheezes, watching as Steve licks his lips. His pink, sharp little tongue poking out from between his lips. He pulls Steve to him, rolling them over, keeping him under the bulk of his body. 

“Mine.”

“Yeah, Buck. Yours.”

Steve bares his neck, the long pale column of skin, just for Bucky. He growls and Steve whines deep from his belly. He opens Steve’s shirt and ruts against his belly, their fingers entwined around Bucky’s aching flesh, squeezing the knot.

Steve purrs when Bucky comes all over him, a sound that makes Bucky want to fight everyone and everything and roll over to bare his belly to Steve. He mouths a flat, little nipple and breathes him in. Steve pulls out his prick, jerking himself off while Bucky licks the head, swallowing down all of Steve’s spunk when he comes, licking him clean. 

They curl up on Bucky’s bed, sheets pulled over their heads until Bucky’s ma finds them the next morning. She sends Steve home with a narrow look and Bucky gets the worst hiding of his life.

Bucky limps for two days after.

At school the bigger Alpha boys talk about fucking Betas. About what they use to get them slick. Bucky remembers the brand name for later and steals a tub from the pharmacy down the street. He has gotten quite good at it. Petty theft. 

They wait until Mrs. Rogers is doing the night shift. Bucky sneaks in via the fire escape after she leaves for work. Steve cooks them dinner, smiling and blushing while he works on the stove.

After dinner they get undressed and Steve turns off the light before crawling into bed, his skinny body molding itself to Bucky’s like it belongs there. Steve’s skin is so soft, it makes Bucky want to be gentle and careful. He runs his nose and lips over Steve’s neck, over his glands and smells apple blossoms. 

He pulls the little tub from his trouser pocket, slicking his fingers and warming the grease between his fingers. Steve looks at his hand and licks his lips, pulling his legs higher and wider on the small cot.

“Come on Buck.”

Bucky’s fingers are slick as they play around the bud of Steve’s anus. Steve’s eyes closed, lip pulled between his teeth to keep quiet. His body pushing against Bucky’s fingers, his hole fluttering against the pressure.

He knows that Omegas are sensitive here. He watches fascinated as Steve’s prick drools a pool of precome onto his stomach. Bucky pushes in, working Steve’s hole open slowly. Slides his free hand over Steve’s chest, over the hard little nubs of his nipples and Steve’s breath hitches. Bucky can feel it on his hand, the uneven lift of his ribs. 

He crawls between Steve’s knees, pulling the skinny thighs over his legs, around his back. The head of Bucky’s eager cock sliding over the valley of Steve’s arse, catching on the puckered rim. Steve moans, lips parted, indecent like in a blue picture.

“This okay, Stevie?”

He just nods, eyes boring into Bucky’s, watching him. Bucky pushes in, gently, slowly. It’s just the tip, but it’s enough, Steve’s body tight and hot around him and Bucky pants against his chest. Lying there, connected, held together.

Steve throws his head back, closes his eyes, The vulnerable column of his throat shines in the low light spilling into the room from the street. It’s an invitation, a request that Bucky knows Steve was going to make but it still takes him by surprise. Settles into his soul like a wound that will scar. A mark he will carry for the rest of his life.

Bucky bites down the junction of neck and shoulder and Steve howls. The taste of blood and honey fill his mouth.

They will have forever. Bucky is gonna make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made it before CA:CW, yay! Thank you for everyone who left kudos and comments, I live to hear from you guys. 
> 
> I will be back after CA:CW with a new project so watch this space. In the meantime come and say “hi!” on my [Tumblr](http://claudia-flies.tumblr.com/).


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